


Rest for the wicked

by Wolfereign



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: But uh oh! Fever time, Denial, Dipshit doesn't wanna rest, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfereign/pseuds/Wolfereign
Summary: Maybe Wilson would be able to take it easy, if he could only get Maxwell to get some damn rest. The idiot was deadset on being active, despite his high fever. Wilson could never catch a break in the Constant, could he.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	Rest for the wicked

**Author's Note:**

> personally i think it's entertaining to have maxwell at his most vulnerable. it's rarely explored with his character yet it has so much potential for angst or other stuff

It happened every time the magician fell ill. The man would flat out deny that anything was wrong, insisting that yes, he was just fine, and yes, his temperature of 101 degrees was normal. He’d go on, slugging through the daily chores until eventually he’d collapse. From exhaustion or the illness itself was anyone’s guess.

And then, Wilson would have to wrangle him into bed. That wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was  _ keeping  _ him there. If there was one thing Maxwell was, it was stubborn. Even after falling over and hitting his head, he just couldn’t seem to sit still for a single moment.

“Maxwell, I swear, I will tie you down.”

“Quite- ungentlemanly of you, don’t you think?” His voice was raspy, and he coughed at the end of his sentence.

“Actually, I think it  _ would  _ be gentlemanly. At least it’d keep you from hurting yourself.”

“I’m quite fine-”

“You nearly concussed yourself on a rock. I don’t consider that ‘fine’, Max. Besides, your fever’s only gotten worse since this morning.”

“Oh, forgive me. I seem to have forgotten when you got your medical license.”

“I don’t see yours either, buddy.”

“I think I know-” Cough. “-my own health better than any old quack.”

“Maxwell, you need to  _ rest. _ ” Wilson sighed as he sat next to him. “It’s not like the others can’t take over your chores for a day or two. Just relax.”

“You know me well enough to know I can’t just do that, Higgsbury-”

“I can and will  _ make you  _ rest.”

“...you don’t have much bedside manner.”

Wilson hit him in the head with a pillow. “Jeez. Even when you’re sick you don’t stop with the wisecracks.”

“I’m not-”

“If you say you’re not sick I swear I’m going to punch you.”

Maxwell fell quiet. Wilson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Look- I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean it. But I can’t have you running around while you’re like this. You could get one of the children sick, or you could end up keeling over from it. And we can’t afford another death right now.”

“If you think a simple cold is enough to take the Great Maxwell down, you’re sorely-” A sneeze. “-mistaken.”

“Uh huh. Tell me who died to that tiny treeguard a few months back?”

“...shut it.”

“That’s what I thought.” Wilson stood up and stretched. “Now, I’ve got to help Woodie collect logs. So help me Maxwell, if I found out you left this tent for  _ anything _ nonessential, you won’t hear the end of it.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes, and Wilson scowled, stepping closer to him again. “You’ll stay here, right?”

“You have my word as a magician.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t reassure me in the slightest.”

Snickering from Maxwell as Wilson headed towards the tent entrance. 

“I mean it, Max.”

And like that, he was gone. Leaving Maxwell by himself in the tent.

…

Maxwell would soon come to find that being alone in a tent was one of the most boring things he’d had to endure. And he’d been on that hellish throne for g-d knows how long.

It wasn’t the lying down itself that bothered him, Maxwell didn’t have any qualms to resting or taking time to himself every now and again. But that was when there wasn’t anything to do. Now, there were chores to be done, supplies to be collected, food to be cooked, traps to be checked the list went on. It was a horrible feeling of uselessness as he laid there, under beefalo fur blankets in the fabric-darkened tent. It was hardly afternoon yet. The thought made Maxwell toss and turn.

An entire day of  _ this?  _ He’d rather be on the throne. At least there, he wasn’t expected to do much else when sitting there. But now, he was actively harming the others. With one less set of hands at work, that means someone else had to cover for him, meaning they had to take on twice the work, all over a simple little cold. 

That just wasn’t fair. There wasn’t much ‘fairness’ in the Constant, but Maxwell was well aware that this was completely and utterly unjust. Why did it have to be  _ him  _ stricken with illness? Everyone else at camp seemed to be getting around just fine.

If someone else had fallen ill, that would be different. Maxwell could cover for them, no problem. The problem was with him being sick. It forced someone else to take on a task when they’d done nothing to deserve having the extra work. The thought made Maxwell’s stomach turn.

Even off the throne, he couldn’t stop hurting his fellow survivors, could he?

He blamed the damned throne. It had warped him, made him dependant on it, and weak without it. He was weak, and skinny, nearly to the point of malnourishment, with bones that stuck out in ways that made the others stare. It was why he preferred to keep fully clothed, even on the hottest days.

Even in someone like Wilson, whom he lied next to nearly every night, he could notice the judging stares at his figure. Wondering why it was so wrong, and so warped, and suggesting Maxwell should eat more, but no, that would only upset the others. He’d been eating only what was given to him, so why now would he take more than what was deserved? What gave him the right to eat more over the other survivors, or even the children?

And he would brush off those concerns every time. That no, he wasn’t  _ that  _ weak, and he didn’t need the extra help, and really, he could survive on his own. He tried not to think of the comments too long. They only brought down his spirits.

But now, in the dark, and the relative quiet save for the chirping of birds and the sound of his own breathing, he had nothing but time to think on such things. 

Maxwell decided that he really did not enjoy being sick. 

…

It had been a few hours since Maxwell had finally been able to catch a break with some shut eye. As he slowly blinked awake, he noticed the darkness, and noted it must have been sometime in the evening.

Well. At least he’d been asleep most of the time. 

As soon as he moved, though, that’s when it hit him. The piercing migraine, the aching in his joints, the heaviness of his chest, everything. It was overwhelming, and Maxwell nearly gasped from it all.

He shifted, and realized just how  _ hot  _ it was. It was late fall. It shouldn’t be this hot. Something was wrong, he thought as he kicked the blankets off of himself. Terribly, terribly wrong, as his chest heaved for air, trying to take in more than he could make himself breathe in.

Coughing. It cleared his chest, just a bit, but it was still horribly heavy, and he was still horribly hot, and his limbs and head still ached terribly. It made it hard to think, made the tent spin around him as he blearily tried to sit up.

Voices. He could hear voices. It was hard to make them out, but they were near the tent. He turned his head despite the spinning. 

Wilson. He could hear Wilson’s voice. He must have returned from his outing. 

Maybe if Maxwell could just call out to him… Maxwell couldn’t figure out why he felt like this, his thoughts felt slow, as if dripping through honey, but maybe Wilson would know. Wilson always seemed to know what to do in these situations.

He realized, though, that his throat was sore and voice raw. He could barely get any sound out when he tried saying Wilson’s name. There was no way he’d be able to hear that.

Fuck. Maxwell was really starting to feel uncomfortable. Wilson would come eventually, right? He always came back to the tent. Maxwell laid down again. The motion hurt his head.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed before he heard the tent opening, and heard that oh-so familiar voice ring out, too loud  _ too loud- _

“Hey, Max… hope you’re up for eating. Got you some soup.”

No… no no no. That would make things worse. His stomach flipped at the thought.

“Maxwell? You up?”

Maxwell tried turning his head towards Wilson, hating the fact it took actual effort. Something simple as turning his head.

“Max-” Wilson placed a hand on his forehead, yanking it back as if it had burned him. 

“Holy  _ shit,  _ Max, you’re burning up!” And then Wilson’s hands were at his shoulders, and then at his back as he had the man sit up. Maxwell grimaced. It was too much. It was all too much. He blinked. His vision was blurry.

“How long has this been going on??” And Wilson was tugging him up. Why? Where were they going? Maxwell couldn’t tell. It was starting to get dark again.

There was a cold hand on his face.

“Max, no, stay awake right now.”

He shook his head. It  _ hurt. _ He just wanted to sleep.

“I know you’re tired- but you gotta stay awake.” And Wilson was trying to make him stand.

Maxwell shook his head once again. Hadn’t Wilson wanted him to sleep earlier? Why did it change now?

He couldn’t think of it. He felt Wilson’s hands shaking his shoulders, distantly, as he started nodding off again.

…

In the dead of night, Maxwell finally came to, blinking slowly. The tent was illuminated by a lantern, and there was something notably cold and wet on his forehead.

“You up?” Wilson. Ah.

“Believe- so…” He’d sat up to cough, feeling Wilson take whatever was on his forehead and place a cup in his hands. Water. Maxwell drank it quickly, his throat much too sore and dry for his liking.

“How are you feeling? WX-78 said you’d hit 104 earlier.”

“That high?”

“Mhm.”

“Explains my headache…”

“And you passing out on me.”

“Ah.” He did do that, didn’t he.

“Apologies if I frightened you.”

“You’re awake now, and that’s what matters.” Wilson was rubbing his shoulder slowly.

“No, I’m sleep talking.”

Wilson laughed. At least he was feeling well enough to be telling jokes.

“You up for that soup, now?”

When Maxwell gave him a look, Wilson put his hands up.

“I can heat it back up.”

“...that sounds nice.”

Wilson nodded, and stepped out of the tent to get it. He came back just a few minutes later, bringing the bowl to the tent and setting it next to Maxwell.

“Just eat what you can.”

Maxwell realized he was still sore. This damned illness wouldn’t give him a break, would it.

Instead of going for the bowl, Maxwell clung to Wilson’s shoulders, putting his head in his hair.

“...thank you.”

Wilson blinked. Then, he put a hand on Maxwell’s head and sighed.

“Anytime. You’d do the same for me.”

“Would I?”

“I know you care about me too much not to.”

“...you may be right about that.”

A laugh. “Knew it.”

There was quiet for a moment. 

“Love you…” Wilson muttered, running a hand through Maxwell’s hair.

“You as well.”

“I’m not leaving your side until you’re better, just so you know.”

“Just as I’d imagined, you father hen.”

“Quiet. Or I’ll tell everyone what you said in your sleep.”

“...what did I-”

“Tell ya’ later.”

“You’re horrible.”   
  
“Love you too, Maxie.”


End file.
